


kick at the darkness

by Island_of_Reil



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Character Study, Class Differences, Comfort Sex, Corpses, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Religious Skepticism, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:40:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23709304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Island_of_Reil/pseuds/Island_of_Reil
Summary: There is more than one way to witness for the dead.
Relationships: Csevet Aisava/Thara Celehar
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	kick at the darkness

_You don’t have to watch,_ Mer Celehar told him, again and again.

In sooth, he did. As he would have hoped, had he not escaped, another of his fellows would have done for him. There is more than one way to witness for the dead.

He clung all the day long to pencil and notebook as though they were sword and shield. Standing amid the stinking bones, every stroke of graphite a strike for remembrance. When the third skull came into the light of day, the tip of his pencil ripped through the paper. That, not the screaming pain in the fingers of his writing hand, forced Csevet to draw a deliberate breath into his tight lungs and relax his grip.

His pain is immaterial and always has been. The memories of the dead are not; they are why he is here.

Until today he has not cared at all for Mer Celehar. The Witness is prickly, indifferent to etiquette, highly unpredictable. It is not that there are no good reasons for this. Csevet understands that at a visceral level, better than most at court. But only the highborn can truly afford to be disagreeable. They need not learn from a tender age to hide every uncharitable thought, every seething resentment, behind a stone visage or a bland smile. Yes, Celehar suffered a terrible ordeal. So did Csevet, and more than one. So has everyone else in the courier fleet. Csevet certainly appreciates the risks Celehar took in Amalo for Edrehasivar, and that he could not have taken them were he not so odd and difficult. That has not made him any easier to like.

It does not help that Csevet has never been one to venerate the gods. He does not mind if others do; it is tradition, which has its beauty and its uses. But the gods’ poor record of intercession on earth implies that either their powers are nowhere near as great as believed or that they care little for the welfare of mortals. Csevet sent up no few pleas to Salezheio as he raced through the corridors of this blighted manor ten years ago. Yet he is here again today. Alive, granted. But many others have slept in the hidden courtyard for years.

His dislike of Cehelar began to fade, then to buckle and peel like old paint, as Csevet watched him work. There is a steadiness there, like stone that lies deep in the earth, that he can handle rotting remains gently and unhurriedly, granting reverence in death that their owners never enjoyed in life. Csevet imagines it becomes easier with practice, that perhaps the younger Celehar himself turned as green as the brothers did today when he Witnessed for his very first dead. This does not diminish Csevet’s respect for his skill one bit; skill is a praiseworthy thing. And it speaks to the character of House Celehada’s former scion that he does not hesitate to pick up a shovel and break the earth, though his frame is slight and his hands are smooth and he is no longer terribly young.

The courtyard was bad enough. The fortress is far worse.

The cancerous clump of edifices that is Eshoravee has stood vacant since Winternight, possibly before, as it has always been a summer retreat. It is impossible to ventilate the complex entirely, given how the fortress and its subordinate buildings cram and contort into one another like one monstrous intestine made of stone. But, on some mild day over the last few weeks, doors and windows were thrown open to introduce at least a modicum of fresh air. The gesture seems to have been pointless. Though the air Csevet and Celehar breathe is relatively sterile, the place positively reeks of the Tethimada.

The little oil lanterns left for them do not dispel the darkness but cleave it into great, writhing shadows. Csevet can _feel_ their metheglin-clouded breaths on the nape of his neck and the tips of his flattened ears, which he cannot make himself lift. He half expects the nearest shadow to reach out and seize him by the throat with one hand, while its many other hands slide lasciviously over every inch of him from waist to knees.

He looks at Celehar, hoping the glance seems more casual than it actually is. The Witness’s jaw and mouth are tight, his eyes slightly narrowed, his ears somewhat back. But Csevet can perceive no actual fear in him. He tries to draw comfort from this, as he cannot from his own powers of reason, here and now.

The bottom floor lies slightly below ground level; it is damp and chilly, its main corridor narrow and dingy. The first door they open leads to a cramped common washroom for servants, and from the spacing of the other doors Csevet knows that the Tethimada would have scorned to use any of the rooms behind those doors as even a storage closet. The upper floors are undoubtedly warmer and more spacious, but the upper floors, save the attic, are where the Tethimada themselves slept. And, Csevet imagines, preyed. He briefly wishes he asked Merrem Curo whether the attic were suitable to sleep in, as well as free of corpses, but then he realizes he has not the fortitude to pass through those intermediate floors. He will take austerity over luxury or even warmth tonight, with pleases and thank-yous to whatever gods are bothering to listen.

When they discover the washroom, Celehar waves Csevet inside and continues on down the corridor, undoubtedly to peer into the bedchambers. Csevet swallows a sudden burst of panic ( _don’t leave me alone!_ ) and shuts the rusty-hinged door, setting the lantern on the icy tiles. He focuses on his breathing, to counteract the feeling of the walls closing in on him, sucking the air out of his lungs.

When he is no longer seized with the blind urge to bolt, he turns the solitary tap on the sink. There’s a wheeze and a hoarse gurgle that make him shudder, and then water pours into the battered basin, brown at first. And cold. _Of course the Tethimada didn’t provide their servants hot water,_ he thinks bitterly. _Did they think the bronchine distinguishes between rich and poor?_ The quick answer is likely no, of course they did not, because they never gave it any thought whatsoever. The deeper answer is that a sturdy roof, a hearty table, warm clothes that need no mending, no worries that all these things could disappear tomorrow, no worries that oneself or one’s son or daughter might disappear into the earth: all do wonders to help pry the cold white hand of sickness from about one’s throat.

There is a bathtub, as battered as the sink, with its own single tap. Csevet ignores it; he has had the bronchine once and has no intention of courting it again, least of all in this cursed death-cage. When the water from the sink tap runs clear, he takes a well-worn flannel from a cabinet and soaks it, then rubs it with the lump of harsh kitchen soap that was resting on the sink until there are suds. He does not strip until the very last moment, and when he does he curses under his breath. Gooseflesh rises all over him, his nipples burn unpleasantly, and his cock and balls disappear into his body. This is not the coldest place he has ever washed in, speaking only of temperature, but it is the last place he ever would have liked to be naked in. He clenches his jaw and, as he has done for so many years, endures. And he is serviceably clean at the end of it.

After drying himself on an equally worn towel, he throws his day clothes and his shoes back on, picks up his lantern, and opens the door. He intended to call out down the hallway — _the washroom is yours, Mer Celehar_ — but words stick in the throat here, as though they might yet reach the ears of Eshevis Tethimar. Fortunately, Celehar has heard the door creak open and notes that Csevet has finished his ablutions. Without speaking he returns, and Csevet hastens down the corridor himself.

Three rooms were prepared, one for him, one for Celehar, and one for Merrem Curo. Each bed consists of a narrow mattress atop a narrow rough-hewn frame, at the head of each is a rickety scrap-wood table, and between the two of them both pieces of furniture just about fill the bedchamber. On the table, however, are long candles in sturdy iron holders, as well as several long matches, and the bed is piled with pillows and blankets that look very soft and smell like soap and herbs. Almost certainly the Tethimada’s, well washed, possibly in storage long before Winternight. Given that the servants’ blankets have undoubtedly been torn up for rags, this will have to do.

Until it won’t.

Csevet gets as far as lighting the candles in the room he chooses, putting out his lantern, and braiding his hair into a sleep-queue before he realizes he cannot make himself get into the bed. Stripping naked to wash was bearable, but he was awake and on his feet. He cannot, will not lie down, shut his eyes, wait for the shadows to violate him and consume him.

It is ridiculous, he knows. He is a grown man who has survived a great many things he shouldn’t have. He knows how to lie with the sweetest of smiles, how to ride faster than the long-horned deer of the Barizheise plains, how to herd the lords of the realm away from the emperor, how to break another man’s nose with one punch. Right here, right now, he is all of four years old again, silently screaming for his mother to save him from whatever lies beneath his bed.

He doesn’t know what to do other than stand in the doorway, waiting for Celehar to leave the washroom. Maybe they can … he doesn’t know. Pray together? Would it help? Does it have to be prayer? He wants to grip Celehar’s hands until his own knuckles go white and listen to his rough, uncomely voice. Praying to Ulis, reciting the prayer of compassion, telling Csevet they will be fine, reciting every entry in the Cetho Register of Deeds. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he wouldn’t be alone.

Finally, the washroom door creaks open again. Csevet watches the little spot of warmth and light that is the lantern bob its way down the dark corridor until Celehar’s features come into view and then focus. The Witness peers curiously at Csevet, whose sense is that Celehar does not question why he stands in his doorway, only what he wants of Celehar instead.

Csevet only realizes what he wants when the sharp blue eyes sharpen even further. And then it’s blindingly obvious.

They still don’t speak. What is there to say? Celehar — Thara, Csevet supposes he should now think of him as— sets his lantern down on the floor and comes closer. Though he is shorter and even slighter than Csevet, there is steel in his blistered palm as it settles upon the nape of Csevet’s neck and pushes his head down. Csevet’s arms are immediately about Thara’s waist, clinging, as if to a life-raft; Thara’s mouth opens under his, hot and wet and fierce.

The ferocity triggers a memory, seen out of the corner of Csevet’s eye: Thara in the receiving room of the Alcethmeret, asking for a letter of introduction to the Prelate of Cetho; then, when Edrehasivar balked, snarling like a wounded wolf awaiting the final thrust of the spear. Csevet winced at the time, inwardly, though he knew what His Serenity then did not. Now he himself bristles, anger not quelling desire but inflaming it instead as he undoes the buttons of Thara’s shirt in between rough, biting kisses and the grinding of their clothed cockstands together. _Fox,_ Tethimar and his hounds named him. And in sooth he feels every inch that wild creature. He wants to claw the remnants of his broken fingernails into Thara’s skin, he wants to bite into his thin lips and taste the blood that blooms on his tongue, he wants to howl his pleasure. He wants to devour before he can be devoured.

Though Thara is no longer the sickly man he was when first he met His Serenity, under his sweat- and earth-stained clothes he yet looks as though even Csevet could pick him up and snap him in two. The strength his hunger lends him belies that apparent fragility. His fingers close tightly on Csevet’s buttocks, parting them and delving in between, and Csevet, groaning, does not care that he will sit in the jolting wagon tomorrow with bruises on his arse. He grabs hard at Thara’s own arse, runs his hands up and down the narrow thighs, reaches up to tweak a rigid nipple while sucking an ear-tip into his mouth and thrills to the sound of this sanctified man blaspheming the useless gods. With the force of their rough and awkward gropings they stagger and sway back and forth within the pen of the room. Csevet shuffles two steps backward, Thara presses himself up against him, teeth bared —

— and Csevet goes ice-cold, shaking, cockstand shriveling, his heart now pounding for a very different reason.

Thara, almost immediately, pulls back. His gaze is sympathetic, apologetic. He breathes in deeply and slowly. Though Csevet senses he is meant to mirror this breath, just now he can only gulp air. Then, gently, Thara moves forward again and cups his hand around Csevet’s cock. Csevet shudders, not entirely with desire, but with enough of it for their current purpose. He lets his head fall onto Thara’s shoulder to watch the small, warm hand caressing him, sliding the foreskin up and down, lingering with delicate touches on the underside of the head. Csevet slides his own hands up the ladder of ribs under the skin of Thara’s back. His touch is less greedy now, more anchoring, even as the blood flows back into his cock and whimpers break through his quickened breaths.

Soon they are both hard enough again, and Csevet lets Thara take him by the hand and guide him toward the bed. Which is also hard, but it doesn’t matter, and it wouldn’t matter even if the pillows and blankets weren’t thick and soft. For a split-second Csevet thinks about spitefully shooting his seed onto those obscenely luxurious appurtenances, ruining the fine sharadansho silk and the feather-light rabbit’s wool, and he can’t help but chuckle faintly. Thara looks at him quizzically. Catching himself, Csevet shakes his head; then, as it hits the pillow, he pulls Thara’s searching hand up until they are almost embracing again.

 _Just fuck me,_ he begs in a whisper too threadbare, he desperately hopes, to be heard by the shade of Eshevis Tethimar.

There is oil in his lantern, probably cooled off just enough now for other uses, but neither of them wish to waste time retrieving it. Thara licks his palm and gives his cockstand a few strokes. Then he moves between Csevet’s widely spread thighs and presses in. Though Csevet did not even need the spit, his breath hitches at the intrusion. It’s a shock to his body, a goad to his lust. He wraps his own hand around his cock and pulls at it furiously as Thara drives and drives.

It doesn’t take long at all, not that Csevet expected it to. Thara grunts as he spends, his eyes screwing tightly shut and his lips parting. Though his trials have aged and hardened him, he is still a pretty man, and the sight of his face as he finds his ecstasy makes Csevet moan unexpectedly. Thara tries to keep thrusting even as he is obviously softening, looking somewhat remorseful that he spent first, but it’s only a moment later that Csevet moans again and his right hand fills with seed.

They remain in place for a minute as they catch their breaths, though Thara pulls out almost immediately, his hand cupped to contain as much of his seed as possible. Then he stands and turns away sharply, as Csevet would himself had done had he not been playing the receptive role. Without Thara’s warm slender weight upon him he finds himself growing cold again. For the moment, the bed affords some warmth against his back and legs. He’ll wait until he can stand the chill no longer before he rises to blot himself dry and to dress.

In the meantime he rests his sticky hand upon his belly and watches Thara from the rear. The Witness, scrawny as he is, evinces a fluid grace as he cleans himself and then retrieves his scattered clothes and shoes. Csevet watches his buttocks disappear beneath his trousers, his shirt billow over the modest breadth of his shoulders and the hollow of his spine before he sets his hands to its buttons. Not much beyond a very rudimentary appreciation stirs in him. If he feels anything, it is relief that he is calm.

When Thara is fully clad and shod, he moves to the door and places his hand on the handle. Then for a moment he is still and silent. Csevet suddenly twinges with dread: is the Witness a more sentimental man than he thought? But the moment passes. Thara opens the door and steps out, leaving it open, repairing to the bedchamber that he picked for himself.

Csevet releases a long breath through his nose and closes his eyes. A moment later he rises, shivering, to tend to himself and to dress as quickly as he washed. Then he unfolds three of the blankets over the bed and crawls beneath them. The cocoon of warmth makes him sigh; it is possibly more pleasurable, certainly more sensual, than anything that has occurred in this room in the last twenty minutes. Or ever, for that matter.

He doesn’t close his door. Nor does he hear the door to Thara’s room close. This, as much as their perfunctory coupling, lets him fall into a slumber that is almost if not completely free of troubling dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [Zhisanin](https://archiveofourown.com/users/Zhisanin/pseuds/Zhisanin), who gave me approval to remix her amazing fic [“Ghosts of Eshoravee,”](https://archiveofourown.com/works/10872588) including the slight divergence of Csevet and Thara kissing. (The remix option in the New Work/Edit Work form isn’t working at this writing.)
> 
> The title comes from the lyrics to Bruce Cockburn’s “Lovers in a Dangerous Time”: _You’ve got to kick at the darkness ‘til it bleeds daylight._


End file.
